Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn, NYDear Brooklyn:
I write you today to offer my apologies for not visiting more often. Even though you’re part of the same city that I’ve lived in for nearly ten years, not one of the four apartments I’ve lived in has ever existed in any borough other than Manhattan. While I know that as a municipal corporation you’re above hearing excuses for my behavior, I thought you might want to know why my visits have been so few and far between:
- I’m intimidated by your size: If you were a stand-alone city, you would be the fourth largest city in the country. You’ve even taken a step up from when you were included in the opening credits of Welcome Back, Kotter, when you were only the fifth largest city.
- I’m confused by your name: You’re called “Brooklyn,” and yet you’re also known as “Kings County.” Not only do I not get this, but this confusion has caused me to overlook how my own borough suffers from the same dichotomy.
- I’m still bitter about the “Sensation” exhibit: I know it’s not your fault but that of a mayor that I never voted for and am happy to be rid of, but the censorship surrounding that exhibit still makes me cringe.
- I don’t understand the G train: I can never get on the right platform for that train, and when I do take a ride, I wind up in Queens. And don’t even get me started on Queens.
- The Wonder Wheel at Coney Island scared the crap out of me when I was a kid: I suppose I wasn’t really the manliest of seven-year-olds, in the end.
I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope that my apology brings with it a new era of malteds and visits to brownstone apartments, and that you’ll welcome me with your open, second-most-densely populated arms.
Best,
Neil
2 comments:
If you'd been a very manly seven year old, I think it would have been weird and you might have ended up being the subject of many endocrinology studies. I wonder if that path in life would still have led you to the nose thing . . .
Also, Welcome Back Kotter rules.
The G train is the one most likely to be heard honking its plaintive and mournful horn while rumbling along the center track at odd hours as you stand on a local platform in Manhattan. You will see it go by, empty and apparently just as lost as anyone out that late would be.
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